ARCHER - Cannonball Ray
by G0shD4rnG3nius
Summary: This is the story of the events that took place between the end of Season 6 and the beginning of Season 7. I wrote this before Season 7 started. It is a parody of the 1981 Burt Reynolds movie, Cannonball Run and tells the story of how the gang get from the desert in New Mexico back to ISIS headquarters in New York. I hope you enjoy it and please comment.
ARCHER – Cannonball Ray

PART ONE: The Team, The Trouble and The Transcon Medi-vac

There they were, the elite members of the International Secret Intelligence Service (also known by the unfortunate acronym ISIS), in the middle of the New Mexico desert, abandoned by their last remaining employer, the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), after having bungled yet another, and this their last, mission for the federal covert operations group. The head of ISIS, Malory Archer, sat in a tattered lawn chair (one of few items granted them when they were so unceremoniously dropped, literally, by the side of the road), taking the last sips of what was undoubtedly alcohol from a white coffee mug. Her lead field agent, and son, Sterling Archer, stood by the road and watched for the approach of any potential rides back to their headquarters in New York. He had taken his shirt off and wrapped it around his head in an attempt to cut down the glare into, and keep the sweat out of, his steely, blue eyes. One of the other agents, and the mother of Sterling's infant daughter, Lana Kane, sat in the only other chair, feeding the baby with a bottle. She and Mrs. Archer were being shaded with a large umbrella being held by Cyril Figgis, another field agent who was also the service's former accountant. Cyril had been romantically involved with Lana between the time when she was first with Sterling and now, and, despite the fact that she had a baby with Archer, still had dreams of getting back together with her. Other stranded members of the team included Pam Poovey, ISIS' former head of Human Resources and its newest agent, who sat on the ground next to Cheryl Tunt, the group's receptionist and heiress to the Tunt fortune. Though Tunt did not need to work, she stayed with the service as a means to stave off boredom while also shirking as much responsibility as possible. Next to Cyril, there was a large crate and a wheel barrow. Doctor Krieger, ISIS' physician and head scientist, sat on the crate while Ray Gillette, another agent (and former Olympic bronze-medal-winning skier), lay in the wheel barrow. He was badly injured during the failed mission and was in desperate need of medical attention. And it seemed like he might just get it.

The crew had been bemoaning their situation and Sterling had just finished an impassioned speech, comparing their group to such underdogs as The Outsiders, Delta House, The Dirty Dozen, The Rebel Alliance, The Commitments and The Bad News Bears and filling them with hope for their future. When pressed for ideas for how they would get out of their current predicament, Archer, with his usual flair, claimed he had a _few_ such thoughts, capping the claim with a flourish by placing a stylish pair of sunglasses on, as if offering a clue to his solution. No sooner had he done that when he caught sight of the glint of sunlight reflecting off of an approaching vehicle. He stared out at it a moment, trying to identify what sort of transportation it might be. The others took notice and some of them turned to see what he was looking at. Once it was close enough to make out, Pam was the first to speak.

"Well I'll be damned," she sighed. It was a van, and one that was probably large enough to carry all of them somewhere air conditioned and where Ray could get medical treatment. A few seconds later, Krieger noticed the row of lights on top of the vehicle and the news got even better.

"It's an ambulance!" he announced. He and Stirling went to the road to flag it down and the others got to their feet. The driver, seeing that the group was obviously in distress, pulled over to the side of the road. As he did, the attendant in the passenger seat rolled the window down.

"You folks look like you could use a little help," he said, with a hint of a southern accent. The group approached the vehicle, most of them murmuring some sort of acknowledgment of their need. There were two notable exceptions to the list of those who responded. Ray was one, mainly because he was in and out (mostly out) of consciousness, and Sterling was the other. The younger Archer just stood at the side of the ambulance grinning like a child just opening his favorite gift at Christmas. He read the side of the orange and white van out loud, sounding like he could not believe what he was reading.

"Transcon Medi-Vac? This is _actually_ a Transcon Medi-Vac Ambulance?" he asked, the second time louder than the first.

"Yessir," the driver told him. "We transport patients back and forth across this great nation of ours," he claimed with pride. "Just gettin' back from droppin' one off in Houston," he went on. But Archer had stopped listening. Instead, he was turning to explain the significance of their ride to the others.

"Don't you see? This is a _Transcon_ _Medi-Vac_ ," he stressed.

"Oh for God's sake, Sterling," Malory harped, "get to the point!" She was now out of alcohol and starting to really feel the effects of the desert sun and was in a hurry to get out of it. Archer explained.

"This is the ambulance line driven by Burt Reynolds," he began.

"Oh God, no," Lana grumbled, fearful that she knew where this was going.

"In the 1981 classic, _Cannonball Run_ ," Sterling went on, expecting to arouse as much passion for this crazy random happenstance as he had. He pointed out the paramedics. "And look," he continued, barely able to contain his glee, "they even have the same uniforms as in the movie!"

"That is correct," the driver confirmed, "our service uniforms have remained the same since the 1970's." Archer looked at the uniforms, then the van, then back to the group, pausing a moment at Ray. A plan, no, more like a fantasy was coming to shape in Sterling's mind. His eyes widened. His grin broadened. He turned back to the attendants, in their orange and white outfits, and sized them up.

"Well, now they are _our_ service uniforms," he told them. He called over his shoulder, "Pam, do you think you can squeeze into this one?" Archer indicated the second attendant's clothes. The man was a little heavier set than the driver but not quite as heavy as Pam. Still, she did not hesitate.

"I'm on it!" she called back, already starting to unzip and step out of her white jumpsuit from the mission.

"But we don't have no spare clothing in the truck," the driver corrected, "and it's against company policy to let anyone else try on our…" The man let his words drift off as he watched Sterling pull his Walther PPK pistol out of the back of his pants and wave it upwards in front of him like he was scolding a child with a wagging finger.

"Oh, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist," Sterling told him. The driver swallowed hard and the two men quickly began to disrobe. While they did so, Archer turned to the rest of his group. "Okay, so here's the plan. I'm J. J. McClure, the part that was played by Burt Reynolds. Pam here will be my Victor Prinsi, the part Dom DeLuise played." Sterling turned to Pam to explain, "Not because of your size, Pam, but because I need a good driver." It was true. Pam was an excellent driver. Back in New York, she drove in drifting competitions against Japanese car gangs.

She let out an, "Oh!" surprised by Mr. Archer's complimentary recognition of her driving skill. But the pick me up was to be short-lived. Archer reconsidered what he just said, realizing that Pam was also _physically_ closest to what he needed for this fantasy.

"And because of your size," he added, as an afterthought.

"Aaaaawww," she whined, a little disappointed that he felt he had to tell her. Meanwhile, her boss continued to lay out the rest of the story line.

"And we're gonna drive this ambulance as fast as we can back to New York." Then Sterling thought about it a moment, and confessed, "Of course, in the movie, they drive from coast to coast which would mean driving to L.A. first, and _then_ going to New York." He thought about it for a second before concluding, "But that doesn't make any sense, does it." The he reconsidered, "Does it?" Before anyone had a chance to respond, he decided that no, it did not. Then he went on with his casting decisions. "Anyway, in order not to get stopped too long by the cops, we need to look like we are transporting a patient. Ray," he said, indicating his comrade in the wheel barrow, "will be the patient, of course, but we also need a doctor." Archer began scanning the group for someone to fill the part of the doctor.

Doctor Krieger had his arm up and was waving his hand as he bobbed, almost hopping, and whispered loudly, "Me! Me! Pick me!" Archer scanned the crowd, back and forth, a couple of times, meeting mostly exasperated glares from the others who were wishing Sterling would just give them their parts so they could all get on with this rescue from the sun. Finally, Archer gave in to Krieger's pleas.

"Okay. Krieger," he said, pointing in the doctor's direction. "God, beg much?" Sterling was glad he wanted to play along but was almost embarrassed by how much. But to make things clear, he told the bearded man bouncing his way, "But I didn't pick you because you think you're some sort of doctor. I picked you because you have the best Jack Elam eyes of the bunch." This comment hurt Krieger a little and he stopped bouncing just long enough to glare at Archer for a moment which only served to make his eyes appeared more like the bug-eyed actor than before. Archer grabbed a quick bit of satisfaction from this before continuing on. By this point he had finished slipping into his service uniform and while Krieger and Pam loaded Ray into the back, he told the others, "Well, that's it." Pam got behind the wheel and Archer climbed into the passenger seat. He extended one arm out the window and into the air. "New York, here we come!" he shouted. "Cannonball!" The others took a second to realize that Archer was done with his fantasy casting and was really going to leave without them. Lana spoke up first.

"What the shit, Archer!" She was furious. "You're just gonna leave me in the desert? You're just gonna leave _the_ _baby_ in the desert?" She knew how much Sterling got wrapped up in these Burt Reynolds fantasies of his but she thought she could talk some sense into him if she reminded him that their daughter, Abbiejean, might come to harm. But he was already too far gone.

"Oh come on, Lana, in the movie, there were two drivers, a doctor and a patient in the ambulance, speeding across America. Mind you, the patient was played by Farrah Fawcett and though Cheryl looks the most like Farrah, and you look the best without a bra on like Farrah, especially now with those milk factories, and mother drinks the most like Farrah, who _acts_ more like Farrah than Ray?" Lana had to concede that point. But Archer wasn't finished. "And besides, Ray really _is_ a patient! Even if we speed non-stop all the way to New York, he might not make it. I mean, look at him!" Lana was incensed at Sterling's lack of consideration for anything outside of his delusion.

"What?! You mean you're not even gonna get Ray to a hospital first?" she yelled, temporarily more concerned for Ray than for herself and the baby.

Archer had that argument covered. "I'm sure we'll find something back there for him," he said, trying to reassure her.

"Already taking care of it," Krieger called from the back, as he prepared a very large syringe with an equally large dose of something inside.

"You see, nothing to worry about," Archer told her. "Besides, if I add a baby and, what, three more patients, and a senior citizen to that," Archer paused mid-sentence to acknowledge the slight. "No offence, mother."

"Some taken," was her response.

"How are we supposed to speed across this, what is it he said, great land of ours?" he asked.

"Great _nation_ of ours," the driver corrected.

"Yeah, whatever, there tighty-whitey!" he called back to the man, who was still in his underwear after Archer had relieved him of his uniform. His partner had already taken over Pam's jumpsuit and was enjoying the scent of it a little too much.

Lana was not done with Archer. "Ooooh, if I had a gun, I swear I'd shoot you, you bastard!"

Archer was smug with his response. "Well it's a good thing I'm the only one who remembered to bring one, isn't it?" With that, he gave Pam a nod and she began to pull away. Then Archer put his sunglasses back on and called back to Lana, "Don't worry! I'm sure something will come along!" Then he bounced the glasses on his nose with a couple of taps with his finger in a way that indicated she was supposed to get some hidden meaning from the gesture. But it was lost on her. What wasn't lost on her was his pathetic attempt at a Burt Reynolds chuckle and his cry of, "Cannonball!" as the ambulance disappeared down the highway.

PART TWO: Father Figures, Feelings, Finds and a Ferrari

Abbiejean began to cry. Lana could feel the fullness in the baby's diaper. She was wet. It didn't smell like she had soiled, but it wouldn't be long. And the diaper bag was left behind at the mission site. The CIA had been in such a hurry to get rid of the ISIS crew that none of them had had a chance to gather their personal belongings. None of them except Sterling, who at least took the time to grab his gun. "God dammit, Archer," Lana swore to herself. She wasn't mad that he remembered to take his weapon, or even that he took off, leaving them stranded. That was just Sterling being Sterling. She was disappointed by the reason _why_ he left. He didn't leave to bring Ray to a hospital or grab baby supplies. He left to have fun; to chase some half-assed dream of living his life vicariously through Burt Freaking Reynolds! She thought he had started to change; that the baby was going to make him finally grow up and be more mature. She was wrong. He was just the same old Archer. She guessed that who she was really disappointed in was herself, for letting herself believe that he _could_ change, and for thinking that _she_ would change; that she would stop pining for Archer and just learn to _live_ with him; to _settle_ _down_ with him. But there was no settling down with Archer. He was just too dynamic. Lana felt excited just being with him. She felt alive. Though she would never admit it to him, she loved getting swept up in his adventures. She loved him. What was not to love? He had looks, he had money, a good education. He was in good health. Even with the breast cancer, he was in better shape than most men he knew. And he was a fantastic lover. So why couldn't he be some of the other things she needed him to be? Why couldn't he be a better father? And why couldn't he be, and she was almost afraid to even think this, a good husband? Or at least a good boyfriend. Why couldn't he be more like, and again Lana found herself biting her mental tongue for a moment, but why couldn't he be more like Cyril? When she and Cyril were together, it was not exciting, but it was serviceable. He was not the thrill of the hurricane, he was the calm of the eye. And in spite of his massive endowment, the sex was no better than adequate. But Cyril was stable. He also had his flights of fancy, like that time he became the dictator of a rebel nation. But he always was able to find his center again. He was attentive to her needs. He was good with the baby. At this stage of her life, Lana needed to get out of the spy business. She needed a stable environment for her and Abbiejean. She needed to settle down. And Cyril was everything Lana needed. But Archer was everything Lana wanted. So she said it again, "God dammit, Archer."

AJ fussed again and Lana cradled, rocked and bounced the child gently in her arms in an attempt to get her to settle down. _Sometimes you have to be convinced to settle down,_ she thought. She considered her thoughts on Cyril again and turned to see how he was doing. He had found a thick stick which he narrowed to a point on one end with a rock. Then he used the rock to wedge the stick under the top boards of the crate. Now that Krieger was no longer sitting on it, he wanted to see what was inside. _Typical Cyril,_ Lana thought, _never wanting to think outside the box._ The boards came off easily. It seems they were only tacked on. Cyril lifted the lid and was surprised at what he found inside.

"It's all our stuff," he said, with a mix of excitement (for the return of their personal things), disappointment (that it wasn't something more extraordinary) and anger (at Krieger for preventing them from enjoying these things earlier). Even though the contents were not extraordinary, no one was more glad to retrieve her things than Lana, for she knew that what was inside that crate was the baby bag so Abbiejean could get a fresh diaper and, almost more importantly, her two TEC-9 semi-automatic pistols. _But he is a provider,_ she thought, even if it was just her own things Cyril was providing. "At least Hawley and Slater were nice enough to make sure we got our things," Cyril admitted. Even though Lana thought the CIA had set the team up to fail at every turn, Cyril still saw good in them. The warm and fuzzy feeling Lana was having was soon replaced by a warm and stinky feeling. AJ's face grew bright red as she pushed out her meal and filled her diaper. It seems Lana got the baby bag back just in time.

The others pawed their way through the crate. "Oh good God, the sat-phone," Malory griped. "Now I can call somebody to get us the hell out of here." She grabbed the phone and returned to her chair, but not before checking to see if the crate, by any chance, contained a bottle of bourbon or scotch or anything alcoholic. It did not. Her first call was to her on again, off again husband, Ron Cadillac. In her sweetest voice, she cooed into the phone, "Ron darling, it's Malory. I need you to do me a small favor, dear." As Malory explained the details of their dilemma, Lana finished changing the baby. While the baby laid, enjoying the feel of a fresh clean diaper, Lana began changing herself back into her signature turtleneck mini-dress. Mid-change, she caught both Cyril and Cheryl checking her out in her underwear. She thought they might be shocked by her lack of decorum.

"Oh, it's not like you haven't seen me in my underwear before," she reminded them.

"Or less," they responded, in unison. It turns out they were not shocked as much as they were _aroused_. Because they had been a couple, Lana knew that Cyril had seen her in less but she was trying to remember when Cheryl had. Then she remembered that Tunt Manor, Cheryl's childhood home and the ISIS group's onetime hideout, had been equipped with an elaborate surveillance system and that she and Archer may have been caught on camera making love there once. It creeped Lana out to think that Cheryl may have been watching them on the monitors. It would have creeped her out more to know that it was actually Krieger who had watched them. She tried not to dwell on it and instead finished dressing by strapping on her holster and slipping the TEC-9s inside.

Next, Cheryl retrieved her things. She grabbed her clothes, her purse and a couple of other things she hoped no one noticed her take and squirrelled herself away to freshen up. By the time Cyril got to the crate, the only things left inside were two suits – his and Sterling's. He picked up his suit and began to undo his clothes from the mission. Then he stopped and considered a thing or two. Archer was always razzing him about his clothes, telling Cyril they were nowhere near to being as good as his own. So Cyril figured, if clothes make the man and the man he wanted to be was Sterling, then he was going to find out what the sheep's life was like in the wolf's clothing. He put down his suit and picked up Archer's. Once he was finished dressing, he had to admit that Sterling knew what he was talking about all this time. The suit felt great. It was supportive and stylish, like an elegant exoskeleton. It made him stand taller and feel fitter. The shirt was snug but not binding. The jacket had a crisp line to the shoulder that gave him the appearance of having been chiselled from stone. The tailoring flattered his physique and no matter what he did, it did not bunch up in the back. It felt like a part of him. The pants were comfortable without betraying his waistline and they maintained a perfect crease right to the hem that denied its creation by the human hand. In it, Cyril cut the perfect spy silhouette. He turned to face the others. Lana thought she caught Sterling in the corner of her eye and was surprised to see Cyril there instead.

"Damn," she told him, half in a gasp, "you look good in big boy clothes." Cheryl's reaction was more to the point.

"Sploosh!" she said, indicating the level of good looks Cyril had achieved.

"Yeah," Lana had to agree, "a little bit."

Cyril took in a breath. That was it. No matter how much it cost him, Cyril wanted to dress this way from now on. But he had to admit that the newfound attention made him a little self-conscious and he felt he should explain why he changed. "Well, Archer wasn't coming back for them, so why should they go to waste. Besides, it turns out, we're the same size."

"No you're not," Lana and Cheryl corrected him, at the same time. It was a point of disgust with Lana that she and Cheryl were so familiar with Cyril and Sterling that they could both comment so quickly that Cyril was much better endowed than Archer, even if (and this made Lana smile a bit too herself) Archer was no slouch in that department either.

"Oh, would you two keep your panties on and pay attention," Malory scolded. "Can't you hear that there is a car coming?" Malory was right. It was the roar of a well-tuned sports car engine, and at the rate it was travelling, it was going to be by them soon.

"I'm on this," Lana announced. She unholstered the TEC-9s and held one up in each hand as she took a wide stance in the middle of the road. To her surprise, the sight of a woman brandishing weapons was not cause for the driver to change course, or even slow down. Though the red rocket was approaching fast, Lana held her ground. Lana won the battle of nerves but she wasn't sure if it had even been a battle. The car, which she could now identify as a late 70s or early 80s Ferrari, did not veer off course one bit but instead came to a sudden stop just feet away from but directly in front of her, bringing with it a cloud of road dust that engulfed them both. Lana shouted to the driver, "Step out of the car! This is an emergency! We have a baby!" She was just using Abbiejean as an excuse. So far, the baby was fine. What she really wanted, now that she had her weapons back, was to teach Archer a lesson for abandoning them. The driver of the Ferrari did not speak. The door opened and a pair of raised hands rose out of it. What followed shocked Lana, and when the dust cleared, the others as well. The driver was a tall beautiful woman, in her late 20s, with long straight brown hair who wore large sunglasses and a form-fitting white racing jumper that revealed a near perfect body. She remained silent, with hands held high as she backed away from the still-running vehicle. Lana returned one of the guns to its spot and, with the other one trained on the driver, climbed into the purring classic. The car was pristine inside. There was no indication what this lady was doing out here in the middle of the desert with this top notch automobile. And the fuel tank was full. It was a perfect situation for Lana to give pursuit. But it felt too perfect. It felt like a set up but every second wasted was a second that Archer was building his lead. She decided to take the car.

"So, what, you're just going to leave the baby," Malory reminded her. Lana hadn't forgotten, of course. But the car was a two-seater and there was no baby seat in the crate which meant that someone was going to have to come with her to take care of AJ. Lana knew Malory resented having to babysit and Cheryl outright hated babies so she looked to Cyril. He wasn't hopping and pleading like Krieger had been earlier but she could tell in his eyes that he wanted to be asked. So she did. At least, she started to. "Cyril, could you," she began, but he was already scooping up the baby and its bag before she even had a chance to finish. Lana felt bad that Cyril had to come along on a mission to chase down Archer and she hoped it didn't make him feel uncomfortable. But he did look good in that suit and given the feelings she was having about him just recently, she hoped having Cyril tag along didn't make _her_ feel uncomfortable. And she certainly didn't want it to complicate things.

Time was wasting and she was eager to get going but she wanted to reassure the others that she wasn't abandoning them like Sterling had. "I'll send someone for you as soon as we reach the next town," she called out to them.

"Oh never mind," Malory retorted, "Ron is already on his way with a car. Just get going before that human fudge factory needs another high calorie diaper change." With that, she edged her chair a little farther away from the dirty diaper Lana had left behind. Lana had no response. She just smirked, rolled the window up and sped off. Malory sat there, disgusted with her randy little team, always chasing after one another. But she had to admit that, though she didn't agree with the way it was being raised, she was going to miss her little granddaughter and hoped everything was going to be all right with her and her parents. She looked for something to distract her from this train of thought and the way it weakened her. She usually turned to alcohol for support. She checked her cup. It was still empty. Worse, it now had road dust in it. She put it down on the ground and looked around for something else to distract her. She found it in the company she kept. Besides Cheryl, there were the rest of the abandoned idiots to amuse her; the ambulance attendants, one of whom was dressed in Pam's jumpsuit and the other in his underwear and starting to get red from the sun, and the Ferrari driver, her arms still in the air. Malory wondered what was wrong with this moron. "Oh put your hands down!" she told the woman. "They're gone now," she reassured her, firmly. Then to the undressed attendant, she said, "And you, there's a suit in the crate. Put it on. You're starting to crisp."

PART THREE: Ron and the Cadillac

Time passed. Cheryl took up the other chair and sat next to Malory with the umbrella wedged in the ground to provide them shade. They didn't speak much, except mainly to chide and goad one another, but it was infinitely more conversation than the others were having. The two ambulance attendants had laid down in the sparse shade of a thin tree, the one in Cyril's suit, with its tight fit at the waste and droopy fit in the sleeves and legs, was being spooned by the one in Pam's jumpsuit as they napped. The Ferrari driver sat on the edge of the open crate, still silent and completely still. It was eerie. Malory noted that, even with her pale complexion, she was not burning in the sun and had to admit to herself that she was a bit jealous.

Soon it was time for the others to be jealous. The sat-phone rang. Ron was close and would be there in a few minutes. Malory and Cheryl got up to stretch their legs and gather their things. Soon their horrible day would be coming to an end.

As promised, a beautiful, new Cadillac pulled up to where they were. The back window slid down and a plain, old Cadillac, Ron, called out to Malory. "Hello, beautiful! We got here as soon as we could. You're lucky we were at that car show in Tempe. That's over 300 miles away but in this baby, we made it in just over 2 hours."

"We?" Malory asked. "Who's in there with you?" Malory knew these car shows often had a bevy of bikinied bimbos available to show off the latest models in an attempt to convince the shmucks with enough money to buy a Cadillac that the ladies will just fall in line when they sign the dotted line. She hoped Ron hadn't been fool enough to hire one to drive them back to New York. The front window glided down and an elbow rested in the opening. The driver, chewing gum, greeted her with a familiar tone.

"Hey, darlin'," he said.

"Burt!" she cooed. Then Malory had her own sploosh moment. It was her old flame, Burt Reynolds. But what, Malory wondered, made her husband Ron want to bring her old boyfriend Burt along for this ride and how did they know each other and why did Burt ever agree to this? So she asked.

"I'll explain everything on the way," Ron laughed. "I've got champagne on ice. The bar is stocked. Hop in, we can fool around in the back while Burt drives."

"You had me at champagne," Malory giggled, and she climbed in the back with Ron. Cheryl started to go around to the other side to get in the front with Burt when Mallory rolled the other back window down to speak with her. "I'm sorry dear, there's a change of plans. You know what they say; three's company, four means I have to share. But I'm sure that you can hitch a ride with Chatty Cathy over there," she said, indicating the Ferrari driver, who still hadn't budged even with the most recent activity. With that, the car began to pull away. "Tootles!" Malory called as it did so.

"Dammit, Mrs. Archer!" Cheryl yelled after her. "At least leave me the sat-phone!" In compliance, Malory threw the phone out the window as the car sped away, spitting gravel in a rooster tail behind it. Cheryl trudged up to the device spitting out dirt as she bent down to pick it up. She checked it. The phone still worked. She pressed a series of numbers on the key pad and held the receiver to her ear and waited for a connection. When a man answered, Cheryl spoke. "Hello, Cecil? I need to borrow your car." The voice on the other end belonged to her brother, and co-heir to the Tunt fortune, Cecil Tunt.

"Which one?" he asked

Cheryl narrowed her eyes, still watching the Cadillac drive off and said with malice in her voice that only Cecil understood, "The Lam-bro." In her head, she heard a band play three menacing sounding chords and she looked around a moment to see if anyone else had heard the music.

Meanwhile, inside the Cadillac, Ron explained the fortuitous nature of that trio's current situation. "So we were at this show in Tempe, see," he began. "I was there to see the latest models, and for the cars too," he joked. Malory failed to see the humor. Ron continued, unabashed. "Burt was there signing autographs with a replica of the '77 Trans Am that he drove in _Smokey_ _and_ _the_ _Bandit_ so I told him we were going after Archer and asked him if he wanted to tag along."

"And I told him, "Only if we can take the CTS-V,"" Burt added.

"So that's what we did," Ron continued. " _This_ is the Cadillac CTS-V! It's the fastest car Cadillac makes. It's got a Corvette engine, you know."

"Alright, alright," Malory griped, "you don't have to _sell_ me one!"

"That's how we got here so fast is all I'm sayin'," Ron went on. "This baby can do 200 miles an hour! And who better to drive a machine like this than Burt Reynolds!"

Malory's tone was noticeably more demure as she turned her attention to Burt. "And what about all your adoring fans, Burt? Won't they miss you?" she purred.

"Most of my fans are senior citizens," he explained. "Tom Selleck was in town so I got him to stand in for me. I gave him the cowboy hat I wore in the movie. They see the moustache, they see the hat, they see the car and they their imagination fills in the rest. They'll never know I'm gone." Burt looked over his shoulder at Malory. "Besides, I could never pass up the opportunity to see you again, Mal."

"Oh, Burt," she swooned.

"So," Burt began to ask, "Sterling's chasing some cockamamie _Cannonball_ _Run_ fantasy? Who did he get to fill Dom's shoes?" he asked, referring to DeLuise, his partner in the film.

"He's got that porker, Pam, with him," she reported.

"Makes sense, makes sense," he agreed. "And, uh, I saw Cheryl back there," he continued, still chewing his gum, "so who does he have as the patient? Lana?"

"Even better," Malory grunted, "Ray."

"Gillette?!" he asked, finding it hard to believe at first. Then, after thinking about it, said, "Makes sense, makes sense."

"No, Lana is chasing after Sterling in a red Ferrari that she grabbed from some stone-faced mute that she left back there," Malory said, filling him in.

"You mean the hot one sitting on her box?" Burt asked.

"Phrasing!" Ron called, referring to the possible double entendre Burt had just presented. It was a game the ISIS crowd played anytime such a wording was chosen. The object was to be the first to point it out. Malory glared at him. "What?" Ron asked. "Aren't we doing that anymore?"

To be honest, Malory wasn't sure where they left the status of the game. "It hasn't been decided," she admitted. That still didn't mean she had to like the vulgar game.

Reynolds steered the conversation back to the topic he was most interested in. "So Sterling's in the ambulance, Lana's in a Ferrari and we're giving chase in a Cadillac, going most of the way across the country all the way to New York City?"

"You don't have to say City," Malory interjected, in reference to a pet peeve of hers and Sterling's about out-of-towners always wanting to put City on the end of New York. "You can just say New York."

Burt continued, undaunted, "Wow, they're starting to get a real Cannonball Run going here. I wonder who will get there first!" With that, Burt pressed down on the gas pedal and watched as the needle advanced past the 150 mark, then past the 160 mark.

PART FOUR: The Lam-Bro

An hour and a half later, Cheryl, sweat dotting its way through various points in her top finally caught sight of the helicopter and its cargo. She had to shield he face with her hand to protect it from blowing dust as first the platform then the chopper touched down. On the platform was the car Cheryl had requested, the Lam-Bro, so called because it was her brother's black 1980 Lamborghini Countach LP 400 S. From the co-pilot side of the copter jumped Cecil to talk his sister and give her instructions for the car and conditions regarding her borrowing of it. He wore a hunting jacket and cap and large, clownish boots. Over his shoulder was slung a hunting rifle. "What the hell are you wearing?" Cheryl asked him.

"I'm Elmer Fudd!" Cecil announced. "You know, 'cause I'm a millionaire. And I really do have a mansion and a yacht." Cheryl thought her brother had lost his mind. Not so long ago, Cecil had tried to get her declared mentally incompetent so he could claim her half of the inheritance. Now she was wondering if she shouldn't be doing the same to him. "Tiffy and I are going to a charity costume party and we're just barely going to have time to make it after we drop off the car. Cheryl leaned over to look past Cecil. There was Tiffy, in the pilot's seat of the helicopter, in a Playboy Bunny outfit.

"That doesn't look like Bugs Bunny," Cheryl commented.

"Yeah, I know Elmer Fudd usually chases after Bugs, but because I'm a millionaire, it would be more appropriate to be chasing after a Playboy Bunny, don't you think?" It was obvious Cheryl didn't see the connection. "C'mon, it's funny!" Cecil told her.

"But Tiffy doesn't have the body to be a Playboy Bunny," Cheryl explained. "More like just a boy bunny." Then it dawned on Cheryl what the better plan would have been. "With that body and those ears, you know who she does look like? Louise Belcher, you know, from _Bob's_ _Burgers_? Oh, you could be Gene Belcher! You kinda look like him. That would have been way better!"

But Cecil didn't see the humor in her suggestion. "Okay, ha ha, real funny, sis. Anyway, help get this car unlatched so we can get out of here." Cheryl had a different plan.

"Wait!" she shouted holding out one hand to stop her brother. "Where is your party?" she asked.

"Just outside of Dallas, at Southfork Ranch," he told her. "Why?"

"Drop me off in Texas on the way," she told him. "That'll give me a jump on those creeps and I can win the race and get the trophy!" she squealed. Cecil was confused. He thought they had abandoned her at the spur of the moment. He had no idea that this was some organized event with prizes.

"There's a trophy?" he asked. Then Cheryl realized the true depth of planning for the so-called event was all really in her head.

"No," she admitted glumly, "I guess not."

"Anyway," Cecil said, trying to get this conversation back on track, "the helicopter only has two seats. I can't give you a ride. You'll just have to catch up to them from here."

"No," Cheryl pleaded. "I'll ride in the car!" It took a few minutes to convince her brother to let her risk her life in the car but eventually they were lifting off again with Cheryl emitting a loud, long "Whoot!" as they did.

Once the chopper was well away, the Ferrari driver broke from her mannequin like stupor and stood up. She opened a pouch at her waste and pulled out a cell phone. She took off her glasses to dial the phone and pulled back her wig to put it to her ear. Under the straight brown wig were waves of platinum blond. When the party at the other end of the connection answered, the driver spoke in her thick Russian accent, "Ze drop off is complete. You can come to get me." The voice belonged to the cyborg that used to be Sterling's fiancé, Katya.

PART FIVE: Aston Martin and Harley-Davidson

The car that came for Katya was a sweet ride; a 1964 Aston Martin DB5 just like the one James Bond drove in the movies _Goldfinger_ and _Thunderball_. As a matter of fact, it _was_ the one driven in those films. It was purchased at auction years ago by its driver, Sterling's valet, Woodhouse. He seemed a bit panicked as he pulled up to Katya. "We'd better hurry, ma'am," he told her, "I may have angered some gentlemen on motorcycles earlier and I think they may be after me." Katya looked back down the road and saw three burly men riding Harley-Davidsons and they were coming fast. She knew that the classic British roadster would be no match for the hogs that were on their way so she decided they had to be convinced not to take up the pursuit.

"I will take care of them," she told him. "Just be ready to go when I get back!" With that, she narrowed her eyes and barrelled down the road, on foot, to intercept the bikes.

"Do be careful!" Woodhouse called after her.

Within seconds Katya had reached a speed in excess of 20 miles per hour as she raced down the road. Undaunted by her inhuman speed, the riders of the two lead bikes pulled close to one another and increased their speed, one of them wielding a length of chain and the other a short bat with nails sticking out of the end of it. Katya plotted a trajectory that brought her between the bikes. Once she was just about even with them, she could see the weapons the riders were readying. She did not try to shield herself from them. She knew her titanium frame would be able to survive the attack. Instead, she extended her arms outward, clotheslining the marauders as they passed, smashing ribs, breaking arms and throwing the men backwards off of their rides which careened off into the desert. Spying the fate of his partners, the third biker skidded his cycle to a stop and got off to get a better look at this girl who had so quickly dispatched the other members of his gang. Katya was no longer running. She walked toward him at a deliberate, menacing pace. She grabbed her head and twisted her neck, making a bone crunching crackling noise that seemed to give her some relief from some unknown discomfort but otherwise she didn't have a mark on her. She wasn't even breaking a sweat. This took the third man aback and he stopped his approach short. "I have time for one more dance!" she called to him. "Do you want to dance?" He sized up his buddies who were writhing on the ground and coughing up blood and thought better of it. He turned to run back to his bike but Katya caught him before he had even taken three steps. She grabbed his leather vest at the collar and his jeans at the waste and hoisted the nearly 300-pound man over her head and then dropped him on her bended knee causing his back to make a cracking noise from which it would have been difficult to recover. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. "You dance like a girl," she told the lifeless lump. She straightened up and walked over to his bike. She kicked up the stand and walked the Harley back to where Woodhouse was waiting. Before getting into the car, she presented her prize to the ambulance attendants, the one in Cyril's suit and the one in Pam's jumpsuit and now Katya's brown wig. "Take this," she told them. Dressed like that, the two sort of reminded Katya of some kind of bizarre bride and groom wedding cake topper. "And get a room," she advised them.

Woodhouse had moved to the passenger seat so Katya jumped into the driver seat of the Aston Martin and sped away. The paramedics looked at each other, dumbfounded by the events that had unfolded over the last few hours. "Well, what do we do now?" the crossdresser asked.

"Well," his partner responded, "that crazy somebitch has our service vehicle. And he's going to New York, to some place called ISIS headquarters. So I say we get on this bad boy and go after them!" That's all the other one needed to hear. With a loud, "Yee-haw!" they climbed aboard their new ride, Cyril Suit in front and Pam-ya in the bitch seat behind him. The only problem with that arrangement was, with the heavier man in the rear, the bike was too light in the front and had to ride a constant wheelie. The two made the best of it and on just the rear wheel, with the setting sun on their back, they gave chase. This Cannonball Run to New York now had all of its participants and was in full swing.

PART SIX: The Amarilla Filla

The Transcon Medi-Vac, containing Archer, Pam, Krieger and Ray, was barrelling down the I-40 heading into Amarillo, Texas when the Texas state trooper clocked it doing 121 miles per hour and gave chase. After a few seconds of high speed pursuit, the policemen turned on the vehicle's flashers and sounded the siren. In the darkness, Pam, who was behind the wheel while Archer rested in the passenger seat, hadn't noticed the car at the side of the road until after she had passed it.

"Shit! It's the cops!" she announced. Archer jerked to full alertness and did a quick evaluation of the situation. He soon realized why they were getting the attention, and he was mad.

"Dammit, Pam, I told you to make it look like we were transporting a patient! That means lights and flashers!" he yelled.

"But you told me to turn that crap off while you rested," she reminded him. Archer was a little embarrassed by the fact that he had foiled his own plan.

"Oh. Right," he said. Then, remembering just how brilliant his plan, or to be more accurate, the plan in the movie, was, he said, "But it doesn't matter. That's why we have Ray. I'll just tell the officer that we have this sick patient that needs emergency surgery. It's perfect!" Ray, in the meantime, had regained full consciousness but was feeling no pain. In fact, he was in quite a pleasant mood, no doubt as a result of whatever was injected into him from Krieger's extra large syringe. As the ambulance pulled over, Krieger began preparing a second dose, but this time not for Ray.

"If you want," he suggested to Archer, "I can get rid of him with a little…" Then he made a stabbing motion with the needle.

"No, Krieger," Sterling objected, "I'll handle this. Just let me do all the talking." Archer didn't have much prepared to say to the officer, instead choosing to play it more by ear. The officer approached the driver's window and knocked on it with his flashlight. Pam rolled it down and the officer shone his flashlight into the cab. Archer spoke up before the policeman had a chance to. "Officer, this is an emergency," he began, trying to come up with something believable in his head as he spoke. "We have Congressman … Fawcett in the back and we are rushing him to New York … Medical Hospital for emergency surgery. If he doesn't make it, the vote in Washington might mean that the … funding for the, uh, gun law might go to … art supplies for gay orphans." Archer tried to press as many Texas prejudice buttons as he could think of but the trooper was skeptical and he reached into the van a bit to light up the rear. There he saw Krieger in his lab coat tending to Ray in the gurney. Krieger hid the syringe behind his back but kept it ready just in case. Ray was smiling and giddy and he pulled his cyborg hand out from under the blanket to wave to the officer.

"Hey, y'all!" he called, in a sing-songy voice. Ray's mechanical hand was black and that shocked the policeman and he pulled back a bit.

"Is that man's hand _black_?" he shouted. Archer picked up on the trooper's obvious aversion to a mixed race person and rolled with it.

"Yes. Yes! And it's spreading," he told the officer. "And if we don't get him into that operating room quickly, he might vote the wrong way." Archer was losing the thread of his lie but he knew he had to work in an angle that would tie the cop's racism into it. "And did I mention that those art supplies were for _inner_ _city_ gay orphans?" It worked.

"My God!" he gasped. Now the policeman was on board with getting Ray to the hospital on time and he even tried to make a helpful suggestion. "But wouldn't it be faster to fly the congressman out east?" Now the cop had Archer convinced.

"Yes!" Archer agreed.

"Yes?" Pam asked, hoping he would see the flaw in that suggestion. Archer did, and he quickly changed his answer.

"No!" he said, correcting himself. Then he tried to offer a plausible reason why. "Because … the condition gets worse at high altitudes," he explained. And then added, for flourish, "We couldn't even drive through Denver." That seemed to be sufficient.

The officer backed away from the window and with a wave of his flashlight he sent them on their way, saying, "Well you had better get going then. But remember, speed kills. So if you want to make sure you make it to … where is it again?"

"New York Medical Hospital," Sterling reminded him, finding it hard to believe that the trooper bought such a fake sounding name.

"Yes, New York Medical Hospital. Well, if you want to make it there in one piece, you'd better observe the speed limits," he warned them.

"Yes sir, we will," Archer responded. Then he tapped Pam on the shoulder and she started the van again. As she pulled away, Archer called out, "Thank you, officer! And God bless America!" Before long, they were heading east at over 100 miles per hour again, this time with lights and siren blazing.

Cyril, driving the Ferrari, was travelling a much more conservative 65 miles per hour while Lana and the baby slept in the other seat. AJ stirred and that woke Lana, who had only switched places with Cyril an hour earlier. She looked at him and he smiled back. Then she looked at the speedometer.

"Sixty-five!" she shouted. "Why are you only going sixty-five? Do you think Archer's going sixty-five?

Cyril tried to defend himself. "But sixty-five is safer," he said. In truth, he was in no hurry to catch Archer. He just wanted to spend more alone time with Lana. But Lana wanted to spend time with Archer, even if it was to beat his ass to a pulp for leaving her and Abbiejean in the desert.

"Safer?!" she questioned. "We're in what amounts to a race car that was built during the Carter administration! There are no air bags, no crumple zones in the body. Hell, I'm surprised this thing even has seat belts. The suspension is stiff. It rides like a rock. There's nothing safe or even remotely comfortable about this thing. The only thing it's got going for it is that it's fast. And right now, all I _need_ is to GO FAST!" AJ started to fuss more with all the commotion and in the gentlest mommy voice Lana could muster right then she told the baby, "Don't worry, we'll get daddy soon, and when we do we're going to kill him, aren't we? Yes we will. We're gonna kill that bad old daddy." Lana pressed her mouth to the baby's belly and blew into it making a fluttering noise. AJ laughed. During this exchange, Lana did not detect the acceleration she was expecting. She peered over at Cyril who was gushing at her adorable mommy talk despite its violent message. Lana glared at him through eyes the size of slits. Cyril got the message and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Lana blew into the baby's belly again.

Over the roar of the engine and the fluttering noises, neither of them could detect the distant sound of helicopter blades cutting through the air overhead. It was Cecil and Tiffy carrying Cheryl and the Lamborghini. Cecil spoke to his sister through the headset she had on. "We can take you as far as Amarillo. That should pretty much catch you up to some of the others," he told her. Cheryl acknowledged and the chopper forged on.

A little later that night, the radio in the Cadillac started playing _East_ _Bound_ _and_ _Down_ and since it seemed appropriate, Burt turned it up. The song was from the soundtrack to _Smokey_ _and_ _the_ _Bandit_ , a movie he starred in, and when the lyric, "We got a long way to go and a short time to get there" came on, he got inspired to get the speedy luxury car going just a little bit faster. He sang along with the song as he drove. As he did, the car began to keep time with a dinging chime. Ron was the first to clue in to the real meaning of the chime.

"Burt," he said, trying to catch the driver's attention over the roar of the engine and the volume of the music. "Burt!" he called, this time with more success. "I think there might be a light on the dash trying to tell you something. The car's not really singing along."

"Oh. Yeah. Of course," Burt giggled. He looked down at the dash. "We're gonna need to make a pit stop," he reported. "Getting low on fuel. We're just entering Amarillo. I'll find a station and pull 'er in."

"Cadillacs," Ron said to Malory, "they're beautiful cars but the guzzle gas like you do champagne." He gave the empty bottle a shake to illustrate his point.

"You said you wanted to get lucky, didn't you?" Malory explained. "Do you think that just _happens_?" Then she tapped Burt on the shoulder. "And find some place fast. I haven't had a pit stop since Kovacs' lab." Burt didn't know who Kovacs was but he stepped on it again and kept his eye out for an exit with a gas station nearby.

Cecil and Tiffy dropped Cheryl and the Laborghini at the Tradewind Airport in Amarillo. They were running low on time but they both had instructions for her so they relayed them as quickly as they could. Cecil went first. "Take it easy with the Lam-bro. It has just 13,000 original miles on it and parts are like _impossible_ to get so if you break it, you buy it." He could tell that his sister was still trying to figure out what an original mile was but he didn't have time to explain it. He had just one more warning. "And don't get the seats all sticky!" Cheryl was pretty sure she knew what he meant by that. She was wrong.

"Don't worry, I'm wearing panties," she told him.

"No, not that," he corrected, then added as an aside, "but thank you for that. What I meant though, is NO RUBBER CEMENT IS ALLOWED IN THE CAR!" Cheryl nodded, then she sheepishly reached into her purse and took out the can that she had of the glue and dropped it in the trash. Shaking his head, Cecil walked away and Tiffy took his place. She had directions for Cheryl to get back to New York.

"The street to the north is Southeast 34th Avenue. Take the Southeast 34th east to South Osage. Then go north until you reach the Interstate. The I-40 will get you to NYC, okay?" Cheryl stared at her blankly. Tiffy took her by the shoulders and turned her until she was facing east. "Go _that_ way," she shouted over the sound of the idling helicopter. In disgust, Tiffy headed back to the chopper and climbed in. She throttled up and lifted off, leaving Cheryl still standing right where she left her. Once they were gone, Cheryl took the few steps back to the trash, retrieved the rubber cement, climbed into the black Lambo and roared off.

Amazingly, she found her way to South Osage and was heading to I-40. She was almost at the Interstate when she saw the logo for The Amarilla Filla Station, a local truck stop. She didn't want to press her luck with the rest of the country and decided to get a map.

It was at about this time that Pam decided she needed to pull off the highway. "We're making great time! Why are you pulling off?" Sterling protested.

"I saw a Denny's," Pam told him. "They have all day breakfast and Pammy needs to get her some Pamcakes!" Archer suddenly realized how hungry he was and stopped protesting.

"I wonder if they know how to do Eggs Woodhouse?" he thought out loud, remembering his long-missing valet. "God, where could that asshole be?"

"He's still missing?" Pam asked, a little concerned.

"Yeah, it's been like a _year_ ," he told her. "I made posters and everything." Archer felt bad that he hadn't put more effort into trying to find the man who had been such a big part of his life, but not so bad that he did not think ill of him. "I hope he isn't curled up on the floor of some flop house next to some dead baby or something," he offered. And as if that image wasn't gruesome enough, added, "You know, in a pool of his own urine."

"Speaking of that," Krieger said, totally unfazed, "I see a truck stop over there. I gotta go take a squirt," he told Ray, who had levelled out after his cocktail of unknown medicines from earlier. "And stretch my legs," he added. Ray, who couldn't feel his legs much less stretch them did not appreciate his doctor's lack of compassion, but until they returned to the lab to repair his cyborg legs, he still needed Krieger's assistance.

"I need to use the facilities too. Could you roll me over there," he asked, almost pleading. Krieger didn't feel like rolling the gurney all the way over to the men's room and he certainly didn't feel like helping a crippled gay man out of his pants in a public place so that he could do his business. Instead he made a counter offer.

"I can insert a catheter," he suggested bluntly. Somehow, Archer found the dead baby comment okay but the conversation these two were having was too much. He determined what he needed even more than eggs.

"I'm gonna go over to the truck stop to see if they have any booze," he told them, and then he hopped out of the van. As he walked over, he could see Pam at a booth at the Denny's ordering her food and he once again found himself wondering which he needed more, food or booze. As if in response, his head started throbbing and booze won. He continued on to the truck stop. _What_ _an_ _awful_ _name_ _for_ _a_ _gas_ _station_ , he thought, _The_ _Amarilla_ _Filla_ _Station_. To Archer, it was one of those "jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none" names. To get the sound they were looking for, they had to change _both_ Amarillo _and_ Filler just to get it to work. ' _Cause Amarillo Fillo doesn't sound right,_ he thought, _and Amariller Filler makes it sound like the establishment is located in Queens._ "And run by Phyllis Diller," he said aloud to his own amusement. "Hi, I'm Phyllis Diller of the Amariller Filler," he went on.

The bell on the door dinged as he walked in. The sound caught Cheryl's attention and she looked up towards the door. When she saw that it was Archer, she wanted to call out to him but she caught herself. Instead, she backed quietly into a less noticeable spot and watched him from behind a rack. Archer went up to the counter and surveyed the measly alcohol selection. "I'll take that bottle of Jack," he told the clerk. The man behind the counter was a short balding man in his late fifties with a large walrus moustache. He was hesitant to retrieve the liquor for Archer.

"I hope you ain't on duty," he told Sterling.

"What?" Archer asked, not sure what the man meant by _on_ _duty_. Then he remembered the uniform he was wearing and explained. "No, I don't actually work for the ambulance. I'm just wearing the uniform as part of a…" Archer cut himself off. He could see the man wasn't any more at ease so he decided to be curt with him. "Look, it's a long story. Just gimme the damn liquor so I can get outta here." The man grudgingly obliged. Archer went for his wallet, then he realized it was in his suit … in a crate … in the goddamn desert! "Shit!" he swore. Then he tried turning on the charm. "Look, I know this sounds bad, but I don't have my wallet. But if you could see your way clear to _give_ me the bottle, I would gladly send you _more_ than the cost, let's say, a hundred bucks, as soon as I…" The man was already putting the bottle away and reaching for the phone. Sterling thought it best not to find out who he was thinking of calling. The last thing he needed was another run in with Texas state troopers. Archer left, but not before making his anger at the situation known. "Okay, but Amarilla Filla is a crappy name!"

Cheryl found the whole exchange quite amusing. She could have easily bailed Archer out of it and probably won some workplace favor as well. But seeing him squirm and lose were worth more than that. She brought her map to the counter and paid for it. Then she had an idea. She bought the bottle of Jack as well. She waited until Archer was halfway back to the van before she left the stop. She made her way back to the car and raced it over to where Archer was. Knowing that Archer was living out some fantasy where he was racing back to New York, she knew she could easily beat a van with four people in it with a Lamborghini with just herself inside. Also being able to buy liquor was just a way to rub Archer's nose in it. She waved the bottle out the window as she drove up to him and yelled, "Woooo, Archer! Race you to New York!" As she sped off, she tossed the bottle, smashing it on the pavement, and shouted, "Rebel Country!"

Archer drew his gun and ran after her with the intent of shooting out at least one of her tires but he couldn't get a clear shot. He gave up the chase at about the spot where the bottle had landed. He looked down at the glass. The neck of the bottle hadn't completely broken and the cap was still on, the seal intact. It hadn't even been opened. Archer was filling with rage. The wasted whiskey after he had been denied it was just the tip of the iceberg. Cheryl had joined his Cannonball Run. And she was in a Lamborghini. And she was ahead of him. Pam was in the Denny's eating which was going to slow him down if he couldn't get her going soon. "Pam!" he yelled, as he started to sprint toward the restaurant. She couldn't hear him but just screaming at someone helped ease his frustration. What didn't help was almost getting run down by a Cadillac speeding through the parking lot on its way to the gas station. Archer had to do a barrel roll over the hood just to avoid slamming into it. When he regained his footing, his furor was at a high and he was going to let the driver know. "Why don't you watch where you're going, you God da-." Sterling cut himself off when he realized that the driver was Burt Reynolds. His rage turned into fanboy adoration. For him, nothing could be better for his Cannonball Run fantasy fulfillment than adding Burt Reynolds to the mix. "Burt!" he shouted, as he made his way to the driver's window.

Reynolds, seeing Archer's outfit, asked, "What's with the get up? Going to a costume party?" But Archer's enthusiasm was not so easily derailed.

"Do you like it? It's just like the uniform you wore in Cannonball Run!" he told the star, fawning. "Which I am recreating," he added. "I'm racing back to New York in, get this, a 1978 Dodge Tradesman being used as an ambulance for, and this is the best part, TRANSCON MEDI-VAC!" Actually, Burt was impressed by the detail.

"You're in a real Transcon Tradesman?" he asked. "When your mother said you were taking an ambulance to New York Ci-," Burt began but then quickly corrected himself by dropping the City, "to New York, I thought she meant the white station wagon type. It sounds like you're doing this whole Cannonball thing up right."

"Mother? When did you talk to my mother?" Archer asked. On cue, Malory leaned forward into Sterling's view.

"Hello, Sterling," she said sternly, still angry about being left in the desert but a little tipsy so not too angry.

"I'm driving her and Ron back to ISIS headquarters," Burt explained. "She _was_ pissed but that was over a bottle of champagne ago. Now she's just _pissed._ The one you really have to watch out for is Lana."

"Oh my God, Lana!" Archer shrieked. He'd forgotten about her. He hoped the arrangements he made had happened and she was all right. As if hearing his thoughts, Burt confirmed that she was.

"Oh, she's okay and all," Burt told him. "She and that other feller, Cyril, got hold of a Ferrari and their already on their way. But she was some mad! They were well ahead of us so it looks like you got yourself a whoopin' waitin' for you when you get home."

"Hmmm," Archer said, already putting a scheme together that would give him the upper hand. "Not if I can help it." Then Archer tensed up, eager to get back into the race after getting this information. "I gotta get back on the road. Not only is Lana getting ahead but so is Cheryl," Archer revealed. "She was just here in a black Lambo. She took off outta here a few minutes ago like a bat outta Hell." Before Sterling got away, Burt grabbed his arm for a quick question.

"So you're tellin' me that you got a Medi-Vac, a Ferrari, a Lamborghini and me racing across the country?" he asked with a big grin. "Boy, you got yourself a Cannonball!" Archer could barely contain his excitement.

"I know, right?" With that, be broke away from the Cadillac on a full run toward the Denny's yelling, "Pam!" When he reached his chunky co-worker, he told her, "We gotta go."

"But I just got my stack," Pam protested, referring to the plate of warm pancakes before her.

"Look, I just found out that Lana, Cyril, Cheryl, mother and Burt Reynolds are all racing us to New York and all of them are almost certainly ahead of us!" he explained.

"Holy shit snacks!" Pam exclaimed. She was about to get up but made the mistake of looking back down at the delicious pile of steaming food on her plate. "But I'm so hungry," he whined. "I can't just leave 'em."

Archer pulled a small glass vile from his pocket. He waved it in the air in front of her. The vile contained some white crystals. "Not even for this?" he asked, taunting her.

"Is that?" she asked, afraid to say the word cocaine for fear it might reignite her uncontrollable addiction for the stuff.

"Courtesy of TV's Michael Gray," he explained. "After the whole Kovacs thing literally exploded, I caught him about to spark up so I traded him for it."

"What did you have that he could possibly want?" Pam asked.

"I convinced Dr. Sklodowska to take him back," he told her with a sly smile.

"How'd ya do that?" she asked.

"Long story," he admitted. "No time. We have to GO NOW!"

Pam stood up. She paused for a second to look at the pancakes one more time. She whimpered, then came up with a solution. "Aw, hell," she said as she slammed her hand down on the syrupy stack, flattening them even further. She rolled the smashed mess like a crepe and with three quick bites, she shoved them into her mouth. With her cheeks stuffed to near capacity, she gave Archer a quick and very muffled, "Okay. Let's go."

PART SEVEN: Fist Fight at the OK Corral, a.k.a. The Tulsa Tussle

Lana, Cyril and the Ferrari had got ahead of the pack at Amarillo but not for long as it too needed fuel. A quick pit stop and the change to Lana's more aggressive driving style meant the delay was kept to a minimum but it was long enough for Cheryl and the Lam-bro to take over the lead to New York. Burt, Malory and Ron were next in the quick Cadi with Sterling, Pam, Ray and Krieger bringing up the rear in the Medi-Vac. But even that was all about to change. It was the early morning hours of the next day when the majority of the pack were passing through the horse country outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Most had decided to get on I-44 at Oklahoma City. Only Cheryl stayed on I-40, partly because of what Tiffy had told her but mostly because, according to her map, the route brought her through Memphis and Nashville which would allow her to pay homage to her favorite country music sites, even if at 80 miles per hour or more. For those who stayed on the northern route, the trip was about to take a turn, literally.

With Cheryl on the southern route, Lana and Cyril were the leaders of the northern group and were the first to come upon the electronic road sign warning drivers with the message: INDUSTRIAL ACCIDENT AHEAD. DANGEROUS CHEMICAL FUMES. TAKE NEXT EXIT AND FOLLOW DETOUR SIGNS. Lana slowed the Ferrari and followed the rest of the interstate traffic onto the service road, which was only one lane in each direction and quickly became congested. Cyril, who'd been napping with Abbiejean, woke up when he sensed the slow down.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"It's a detour," Lana explained. "Some sort of accident." As traffic slowed even further, Lana began to get frustrated. "Shit! If Archer was ahead of this, he's really gonna build his lead back up." Even as she said it, Lana thought it was strange that they hadn't already caught up to Sterling. Even with Cyril's slow driving from earlier, she suspected she'd closed the one hour lead Archer had originally. She figured the Ferrari's top speed had to be at least 50 miles an hour faster than that of the ambulance. Of course, she had no idea that she was indeed ahead of Archer and all the others except for Cheryl who, she also had no way of knowing, had taken a longer route to New York that they had. At least, with westbound traffic presumably being detoured to the other side of the accident, there was little traffic in the oncoming lane of this road which allowed Lana, when the opportunity presented itself, to pass several cars at a time. She wasn't the only one taking this aggressive approach. Several cars, including the car containing Burt Reynolds, Malory Archer and Ron Cadillac, were doing the same. In fact, they were just a few cars behind the Ferrari.

A few miles later, they reached a second electronic sign that Lana hoped would be the detour back to the highway. It was worse than that. This sign read, NOXIOUS CLOUD DRIFTING. TAKE NEXT RIGHT. FOLLOW SIGNS. The road on the right was a single lane road. Now even the chance to pass was gone. Lana gripped the wheel hard and her breathing became more of a snorting as the traffic on this road crawled at a pace no faster than 20 miles an hour. Cyril tried to stay positive. "Maybe he's stuck in this too," he offered.

"Shut it!" was her only response. To make matters worse, she could see another sign ahead. "You have got to be shitting me!" Lana shouted. This sign read, IMMEDIATE DANGER AHEAD! TURN LEFT. The new detour brought them onto a gravel country road. The cars on this road were barely moving and many of them honked their horns at the tractors and horse drawn buggies they encountered. The motorists did not have to endure this pain long as relief soon came in the form of yet another sign, this one reading, TURN LEFT NOW!, with the word NOW flashing. This time the detour led them onto a dusty dirt road that ran through a corn field. By Lana's calculations, this series of detours had formed a bit of a spiral that was going nowhere and she was leery about taking it but did so if for no other reason than to avoid the wrath of the other angry drivers. Lana had every reason to be suspicious as it soon became apparent that the dirt road literally went nowhere, ending in what essentially amounted to a large crop circle with nothing in it but one last sign. This one read, ELABORATE ROAD SIGN HOAX! SUCK IT! Archer was ahead of them alright. If not literally, he was at least figuratively one step ahead of them. She didn't know how he had done it, or how he even knew where they were, but he managed to potentially lock them up in this jam for hours. And at the same time, Lana was both furious at him for once again abandoning them and impressed with the simplicity and ingenuity of his plan. But she only had one way to express how she felt about it. "Fuck," she muttered.

It was at this time that the Medi-Vac was coming up on the first road sign. Inside, Ray was asleep on the gurney having been sedated by Krieger who was also asleep on the gurney (and had snuggled himself up to Ray) having sedated himself. Krieger was using Ray's head as a pillow and the unconscious doctor had a small stream of drool running from his mouth, between his and Ray's cheeks and down Ray's neck. Archer was taking a mid-morning nap in the passenger seat and Pam, who had done all the driving thus far and who had pulled an all-nighter on nothing more than a hastily eaten (and roughly digesting) double stack of pancakes that she had hours earlier, was herself falling asleep. As the van's right tires began riding on the corrugated edge of the highway, the rough noise they made woke Archer with a start. He achieved sufficient alertness just in time to jerk the wheel to the left and correct the vehicle's high speed trajectory. The motion woke Pam with a start. "God dammit, Pam! Watch the road!" he shouted.

"But I'm so tired," she complained. "I've been driving all night while all you did was play with that radio," she said, in reference to the ambulance's CB radio.

"I wasn't _playing_ ," he shot back, insulted by her word use. "I was _planning_ \- my elaborate road sign hoax," he explained, pointing to the approaching road side display. Pam saw the cars pulling off and read the sign.

"You mean it's not real?" she asked.

"No," Archer laughed. "And with any luck, it also took Cheryl, Lana and mother right out of the race," he added "Not no mention buying us miles and miles of totally traffic free open road!" Archer was filled with glee at the effectiveness of his scheme.

"But I'm too tired to enjoy it," she whined.

"Even if you got high with a little help from your friends?" he asked, clinking the contents of the cocaine vile.

"Oh damn, I forgot about those! Gimme, gimme, gimme!" Pam reached for them with one hand, repeatedly curling her fingers to indicate her desire. Archer dumped them in her palm and she threw them in her mouth and chewed the drug chunks like children's aspirin. She even made a "num num" sound as she did. Within a minute, the stimulus was in her blood and arousing her brain. She stepped on the accelerator. Her manic behaviour reminded Archer of Dom Deluise's alter ego in Cannonball Run, Captain Chaos.

By the time they reached any real traffic on their side of the interstate, they were entering Tulsa and passing by a row of restaurants, cafes and assorted eateries. This only served to remind Archer that he still hadn't eaten. He remembered not having money at the truck stop because he didn't have his clothes and therefore he didn't have his wallet. But Pam had the same uniform on as him and yet she was able to get pancakes. He had to find out how she did it, and more importantly, whether she could get him something. "How were you able pay for those pancakes earlier," he asked her. She looked at him then reached into her bra and produced a credit card.

"American Express," she explained. "I never leave home without it."

"Great!" he said, then a little more sheepishly added, "How would you like to buy us something to eat at one of these restaurants here?"

"Oh man, I thought you'd never ask," she agreed.

That had gone more easily than Archer had even hoped. He surveyed the restaurants he could see coming up. One in particular caught his eye, a drive-in style burger place called The OK Corral. Now that was a business name Archer could appreciate. It was a familiar name from a famous Burt Lancaster (Archer's second favorite Burt)/Kirk Douglas movie, _Gunfight_ _at_ _the_ _O_. _K_. _Corral_. It was located in Oklahoma horse country, so Corral made sense. OK was Oklahoma's two-letter postal abbreviation. And the car stalls resembled a corral, but for automobiles. It just worked on every level, Archer thought. "Pull into a spot at that drive-in, the OK Corral," he instructed. He even liked saying it. If the food is as good as the name, he thought, he was in for quite a meal.

He didn't know about the food yet, but he was already very impressed with the wait staff. The waitress serving his stall was a big-breasted girl of no more than 21. Her uniform consisted of a cowboy hat and boots, Daisy Dukes and a blouse tied just above her narrow, tanned waist with no apparent bra underneath. Archer was getting erect just looking at her. And when she spoke, her voice dripped of sweet honey coated in a delicious southern accent. "Hi, welcome the OK Corral. My name is Malory (bye bye, erection!). What can I get for y'all?"

In spite of her unfortunate name, Archer was pleasant when he ordered. He did a quick check of the posted menu and told her, "We're in a bit of a hurry so we'll just get four of your Giddy Up and Go Specials," he told her, and then, in an attempt to be funny, added, "and we'll take that to giddy up and go." Malory had heard that one before but she played along.

"Four Giddy Up and Gos to go. Gotcha!" she said, with a huge white smile that revived Archer's shrinky dink. He tried to ignore it and turned to the sleeping beauties in the back.

"Hey Krieger! Ray! The honeymoon's over! Wake up! We're getting something to eat," he shouted to them. The bedmates opened their eyes and Krieger slowly got up. As he did, long strings of saliva stretched between their cheeks.

"Aw, Ray!" Krieger moaned, trying to blame the invalid below him for the uncomfortable mess. But Ray wasn't buying it and he tried to explain the logic to the bug-eyed beardo.

"Oh, right, like my saliva flows _uphill_ ," he explained, as sarcastically as he could.

While this group were waiting for their food to arrive, another group at the other end of the corral were already eating. At that end were a row of narrower stalls where motorcycles went for service. The restaurant staff referred to these as the Stallion Stalls. It was in one of the Stallion Stalls that the ambulance driver, still wearing Cyril's suit, was sitting on the Harley that Katya provided, eating his burger while his partner, still in Pam's jumper and Katya's wig sat side saddle on the back eating a salad. "I don't know why you weigh so much if all you eat is that shit," the driver said of his partner's salad.

"'Cause on my bad days, I have ice cream for dessert," the man in white and a wig explained, then admitted, "with a side of fried chicken."

"You must have a lotta bad days," the driver complained.

"Now don't be hurtful, Mr. Eats-anything-he-wants-and-never-gains-a-pound," Whitey shot back. This exchange attracted the attention of some of the other patrons in the Stallion Stalls who began whispering to themselves and pointing in the pair's direction.

Eventually, one of the biker bitches wandered over to them. She gave the driver a flick on the arm with her finger and asked him, "Whose motorcycle is this?"

The driver didn't want to be bothered and so with as much attitude as he could muster, he corrected her. "It's a chopper, baby." The woman looked back at her companions and they laughed at how brave and yet stupid this guy was being. But, for now, she played along.

"Okay," she began again, "Whose chopper is this?"

The driver didn't know but he figured that she didn't know either. There was a large letter Z hanging on the keychain so he told her the first name that started with Z that he could think of. "Zed."

This was not the name she knew belonged to the owner of this bike and those keys, so she asked, "Who's Zed?"

Still trying to be tough and now wanting to get rid of this bitch so they could finish their meals and get back on their way to New York, the driver fed her a violent answer trying to scare her off. "Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead."

One of the other bikers in her group stepped out from behind a couple of the others. He was a big man, like the others, but he was different in that his ribs were wrapped and his forearm was in a fresh cast. He called out to them, "Zed ain't dead!" This man looked vaguely familiar to the ambulance attendants but they couldn't place him. The man kept shouting. "But he's busted up real bad and he's layin' in a hospital in New Mexico." The attendants were putting it together and their eyes widened. "And his name ain't Zed," the man went on. "It's Zevon. And he's one of The Werewolves of London!" With that, the man turned around and pointed to the logo on the back of his jean vest with his thumb. It read The Werewolves of London and it featured a full moon partially cut away by the silhouette of a howling wolf with a shiny metallic motorcycle in the foreground being driven by a werewolf in a leather jacket emblazoned with the Union Jack. With that, the entire group broke into their signature howl. Then the first man turned back to them and told them, "And you're sittin' on HIS BIKE!"

Suddenly the driver wasn't feeling very brave at all. He felt scared and weak, with barely enough strength to whisper, "Oh shit."

The howling caught Pam's attention and she looked over at the bikers. Her coke-heightened awareness allowed her to instantly recognize the pair on the Harley as the ambulance attendants. She tapped Archer and pointed in their direction. "Hey, aren't those the guys we got this ambulance from?" The Medi-Vac experience had been so good for Archer, he was glad to see them.

"Yeah! We should go over and say hi," he suggested. Then he sized up their situation and _knew_ they should go over. Here they were driving the van they stole off these guys and now it looked like they were going to get their asses kicked. The least they could do, Archer thought, was to intercede. And furthermore, he thought, those three dudes and that chick were no match for the two attendants, himself and a coked-up Pam. Heck, coked-up Pam alone could probably take them. "Uh oh," he told her, "looks like they _need_ us to say hi. Let's go."

"Right behind ya, boss!" she told him, always ready for a fight.

Archer called back to Ray and Krieger, "You two wait for the food. Give the horn a honk when it arrives. We won't be long."

Zevon's buddy was just about on top of the ambulance attendants when Archer called out, "Gentlemen!" That stopped him long enough for Archer and Pam to finish walking over.

"You!" the driver gasped, finding it hard to believe he was reliving the whole New Mexico experience from the day before.

Archer gave him a quick, "Hey. How're you doin'? Nice suit," before returning his attention to the obviously pissed associate of the man known as Zevon. "Now, it looks like you were about to pummel this gentleman here over the matter of what, a motorcycle?" Archer asked. "And while I don't have a problem with the motive, per se, it's the method I object to. Really? Four on two? Hardly seems fair," he pointed out. Archer made a gesture to indicate himself and Pam and then continued, "But four on four, that seems a little more even." The man in the jean jacket took a couple more steps and brought himself face to face with Archer. Actually, it was more like face to chest. The man was huge but nothing Sterling couldn't handle. He braced himself for the giant's first move but all the man did was let a wide smile spread across his face. Archer darted his eyes back and forth, checking for a sneak attack from the side. That's when he noticed how many bikes were in the Stallion Stalls and he came to a grim realization. He asked the giant, "But it's not four on four, is it?" The man slowly shook his head. Confirmation came in the form of a tap on the shoulder from Pam.

"Uh, Archer?" she warned. The big man gave a quick nod, indicating to Archer that he should look behind him. Archer turned his head a little to look over his shoulder. Ten or eleven more goons were emerging from the restaurant. Now it was time for Archer to echo Cyril Suit's sentiment.

"Oh shit," he said. But for Archer, this was less a sign of impending doom and more one of an impending fight and he figured he'd better make the first move while there was still a little of the element of surprise left. As he turned his head back, he brought his fist up with full speed, catching the big man, who was slow to react because of his recent injuries, square in the face and bursting his nose. That move unleashed the pandemonium that ensued. Pam, instead of attacking the smaller group close to them went after the crowd coming from the restaurant, charging like a rhino into the first man with a bowling manoeuver that resulted in several of the pinheads toppling to the ground with Pam on top of the pile. The biker bitch went after the two on the motorcycle. While Salad Eater seemed fay, he effectively dispatched the attacker with one walloping blow to the chin. Her two buddies came at them next while Pam still dealt with the larger group.

In the meantime, the food had arrived at the van. Krieger gave the horn a couple of toots to indicate that it was time to eat. When the other two didn't immediately show up, Krieger slid the side door open to see if they were on their way. That was when the two inside got their first look at the action on the other side of the parking lot. Several large, burly types were closing in on Archer and Pam who were doing their best to keep them at bay. Ray reacted first. "Oh Dukes!" he said, as he propped himself up in the gurney. "Krieger, do something!" he shouted.

The doctor yelled out to them, "Archer! Pam! Come and get it!" Krieger hoped they would just break away from their activity and return for the meal.

Ray couldn't believe how stupid an idea that was and admonished him for it. "Krieger!" he yelled.

But Krieger remained thick about the situation. "What?!" he asked. Then, thinking he had realized his error, shouted again, "And don't forget to wash up!"

Ray felt it best to take matters into his own hands. "Oh, screw it! Just hand me my guns."

Krieger looked at him blankly. "But," he admitted, "I don't have your guns."

"You mean you guys didn't bring my M1911s?" he asked, heartbroken. "Barbra and Liza are still at Kovacs lab?! You assholes!" Ray quickly tried to turn his anger into action. "Well we gotta do something. Those guys are gettin' their asses kicked." Krieger, in his limited capacity, could only think of one thing, and that was honking the horn some more.

The honking did bring about one result however. It attracted Lana's attention. As it turned out, Sterling's elaborate road sign hoax didn't delay the others by as long as he had hoped and soon the red Ferrari and the new Cadillac were back on track. And, as fate, or Archer's generally good luck, would have it, Lana was driving by just as the commotion was getting out of hand. She turned her head in the direction of the honking and caught sight of the Medi-Vac. "Hey, isn't that the ambulance Archer left in?" she asked Cyril, who was giving the baby her bottle. Before her boring other half had a chance to respond, she saw the fight and Archer in it. "Looks like he needs me to bail him out again," she said, pulling the Ferrari into one of the stalls in the restaurant parking lot. She jumped out and called back to Cyril as she made her way over to the fight, "Stay here with AJ!

The Cadillac was just a couple cars behind and Malory saw the Ferrari pull off the road and into the restaurant. "That looks like the car Kane and Figgis were in," she said. Then, following the path it took, saw the orange and white van. "And there's the ambulance!" she called. "Sterling must be here! Burt, pull over!" The Cadillac followed after the Ferrari and the trio caught sight of the spectacle that was the fight. The three of them watched a moment as Lana rushed over to join in the brawl.

Archer and Pam were on the ground trying their best to fend off four attackers each when Lana got there. With one insanely large hand she peeled one of the men off of Archer and with the other hand, belted him. "What are you, a sissy?" she asked of Archer. "You can't handle a little four-on-one action?" With that, she peeled another one off and socked him in the eye.

"Lana!" he shouted. He was glad to see her, not because he needed help but because she made it out of the desert okay. He was actually offended that she was helping him. "No, I was doing fine, thank you. And besides, you of all people should know that I love a little four-on-one action," he told her, double entendre intended. "So why don't you use those giant hands of yours to steam shovel a couple off Pam instead. I got this!"

"Suit yourself," she said as she turned to help Pam. But her coke-fuelled co-worker was doing alright on her own, already back on her feet and throwing off men left and right. Once the bikers realized Lana had joined the fight against them, they started to close in on her as well and she and Archer soon found themselves back to back and surrounded on all sides by attackers. They locked arms at the elbow and with a combination of Krav Maga and kickboxing, proceeded to thin the herd.

"Look at me!" Archer exclaimed, giddy with the realization that yet another facet of his Cannonball Run fantasy was coming true, that being the fist fight that broke out against a gang of bikers. In that scene, many of the antagonists were defeated by martial arts performed by Jackie Chan. "I'm Burt Reynolds _and_ Jackie Chan!" he yelled, kicking another fighter in the face.

"No, _I'm_ Burt Reynolds!" said the real Burt Reynolds who had come over to join the fight. Burt spun one of the gang members around and with one to the gut and one to the jaw, knocked him down. With the six of them in the fight, Archer, Pam, Lana, Burt and the two ambulance attendants, it wasn't long before the motorcycle gang was just an assorted, unconscious pile of crumpled, broken bodies. In the end, the ambulance attendants were pretty badly beaten and exhausted but nothing was broken and they'd be able to walk away from the fight. Pam had a bloody nose, a bloody lip and a swollen eye but it was nothing she hadn't had many times before from her street fighting days. Archer got a small cut on his cheek that had dripped a little blood. He couldn't even recall how that had happened. Lana had bruised her hands and Burt didn't have a scratch on him. In fact, he had done all that driving, without sleep or food, and done all that fighting and he still looked fresh as a daisy. Archer's respect and admiration for the man only grew with that realization.

The group went back to the cars and ordered food and took time to eat and recap their stories. Archer started. "So," he said to Lana, "I see you got the Ferrari I sent for."

"You _sent_ for?" she asked.

"Yes," he confirmed. "After the whole Kovacs fiasco, I knew we were through with the CIA so I had to come up with a plan for a new source of income. That's why I called for the Ferrari."

"Well that explains why the driver gave it up so easily," Lana had to admit.

"Yeah, who did you get to deliver the car?" Cyril asked. It was obvious to him that he was never going to have a chance to get Lana back so now he was looking for any distraction from her.

"I called the only person I could trust to get the right car and bring it to the right place at the right time," Archer told them. "But since Woodhouse still wasn't answering the phone, I called Katya."

"Katya!" Lana protested, but Archer interrupted before she got too angry.

"Yes, I know how you feel about Katya, so I didn't want you to know it was her. I asked her to wear a disguise," he explained. "And," he added, "based on your surprise, she did and it worked."

"But how is a _Ferrari_ going to make us any money?" Malory asked, frustrated with having to piece this so-called plan together from Sterling's extreme lack of details.

"All in good time, mother," he told her. "I will reveal the complete plan once we get back to ISIS. But the Ferrari is a clue," Archer said, with a smile. "And the sunglasses," he added. "My sunglasses are a clue as well. And if that doesn't make it glaringly obvious, then I have given up all hope on you people." Archer waited for them to put it all together. It didn't happen. "Oh come on!" he yelled in exasperation. "The Ferrari? The sunglasses? It could only be one thing!" Still nothing. "You people are dead to me," Archer groaned, disgusted.

Ray did realize one thing. "So if all you called for was the Ferrari, how were the rest of us supposed to get back to New York?" The others turned to hear Archer's explanation.

"Ummm," he began, obviously without an explanation. "I'm sure something would have come along," was all he could offer.

"Asshole," Ray muttered.

"But something _did_ come along," Archer said with glee. "By some sort of divine intervention, the Transcon Medi-Vac came along! Allowing us to recreate the Burt Reynolds classic, Cannonball Run," Archer said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm, then added, "that, admittedly, though it was brought in as part of the original plan, the Ferrari fit into perfectly." And, as if that wasn't enough good luck, in Archer's mind, he mentioned, "And, of course, there was the fist fight. That was great!" Then he remembered, "And the Lamborghini! I almost forgot about the Lamborghini! And it's black! Could it be any more perfect?" Then Archer remembered why he forgot about the Lamborghini. Because it wasn't there. "Shit! Cheryl has the Lamborghini," he told them. And then, as if to remind them why that was important, added, "And Cheryl's not here! That means that she's out there, getting farther and farther ahead of us. There are 1,328 miles to go and she could be as many as 150 miles ahead of us so we gotta get back on the road!"

"Wait," Lana interrupted. "How do you know that?"

"It's pretty simple math, Lana," Archer said, finding it hard that a college grad couldn't keep up. "If she's going 150 miles per hour," he began, slowly, "and we've been here for an hour…"

"No, not that part," Lana interrupted again. "The distance from here to ISIS; how do you know _that_?"

"Jeez, Lana," he retorted, "how do you _not_ know that?" Archer thought that part was pretty common knowledge. He didn't realize he was something of a savant when it came to all things numerical. "Anyway, time's a-wastin, people! Let's go! We got a Cannonball to run!" Archer jumped back into the Medi-Vac, this time in the driver's seat. Before taking off, he rolled the window down and yelled over to the Ferrari, "And Cyril," he began, getting the other agent's attention, "don't think I didn't notice. I want my suit returned when we get back to ISIS, cleaned and pressed. Popeye knows what I like," he instructed, referring to the drycleaner on the first floor of the building which housed ISIS headquarters. "But I'll take my wallet _now_ ," he added, remembering the embarrassment at the truck stop.

Cyril didn't think he had the wallet. He checked the jacket pocket and to his astonishment, there it was, an almost paper-thin fold of soft leather. "Wow, I didn't even know it was in there. It's so thin!"

"Of course, you idiot," Archer shot back, "the only thing I keep in it is the corporate Black Titanium card. I don't want any bulges ruining the line of the suit. And speaking of that, make sure Popeye pays special attention to the pants." Archer didn't want Cyril's bulge to throw off the fit of the trousers. Cyril handed him the wallet and Archer backed the van out and drove off. The others had to go to New York anyway and decided that if they could ruin Archer's dream of winning this Cannonball Run, they would ruin it. So as quickly as they could get gathered up, they too were off. The ambulance attendants, still recovering from the fight, were in no shape to try and forcibly take back their service vehicle so they felt their only recourse was to continue on to New York and try to retrieve it there. And since they still had no other ride, they once again climbed onto the Harley and wheelied there way east. The Cannonball Run was once again back on!

PART EIGHT: The Raleigh Realization and The Philadelphia Dump Truck

Of course, the ISIS gang had no idea that Cheryl had taken a more southerly route to New York and as a result had missed the road sign trap Archer had laid. It was not that she was simply not fooled by it. As such, it was a bit of a mystery that they had not caught up to her. As the day dragged on, they were more and more coming to the conclusion that they were simply being outrun by the much faster Lambo.

By the end of that afternoon, Cheryl had paid her high speed respects to Graceland in Memphis and The Grand Ole Opry in Nashville before continuing on her way down I-40. It wasn't until she was well into North Carolina that evening that Cheryl began to suspect that Tiffy's instructions weren't entirely correct. By the time she passed Raleigh, things really felt wrong. Shortly after Raleigh, Cheryl crossed I-95, a highway she knew travelled through New York. She pulled over and checked the map again. Sure enough, I-40 kept travelling south to Wilmington. She had gone hundreds of miles out of her way. There was nothing she could do but get on Interstate 95 and drive as fast as she could if she was to have any chance of beating Archer back to the ISIS headquarters.

Despite I-95's path next to many major cities, including the notoriously traffic-bound Washington, D.C., Cheryl made amazingly good time. By 6am the next morning, she was racing up the eastern seaboard and into Philadelphia. Unlike Archer and his group, Cheryl, with all of the speeding and erratic driving she had done, had not been stopped by any sort of law enforcement. Until now. The Lam-bro had glided past the Philadelphia International Airport and was passing between the Wells Fargo Center and the Naval Base when the flashing lights came on behind her. She had been accelerating to just north of 180mph when the police officer started his pursuit. Cheryl knew she could outrun this lawman in the Lamborghini but she also knew that he could call ahead for a road block or other such tactic, any of which might delay her even more severely. She felt it was probably best and fastest to just pull over and deal with being issued the ticket. She pulled off into the breakdown lane and waited for the officer's approach.

The policeman was young, around Cheryl's age, and a handsome man. Cheryl figured he was on traffic duty due to some junior status in the force. She had the window down and was ready to plea her case as the young officer arrived. As soon as he laid eyes on her, she could tell he found her attractive. She hoped she could use this to her advantage. She brought her arms together on her lap which served to bring her breasts together, creating more cleavage for her V-neck top to expose. The officer tried not to make it obvious that he had noticed her endowment as he spoke to her. "Ma'am, I observed you travelling at a speed of 182 miles per hour on this Interstate highway, and you were accelerating. That is almost three times the posted maximum allowable by law," he reported. Cheryl leaned toward the window, pressing her chest on the door a bit, to rebut. The policeman swallowed noticeably at the sight of her now heaving chest.

"I'm very sorry officer. I realize I was going a bit too fast but I am in a hurry to make a very important meeting in New York." Cheryl added doe eyes and pouty lips to her sexual ensemble. Then, adding a bit of country twang, asked, "Is there no way I can just pay some sort of fine and be on my way? I can pay any amount. I'm very wealthy. I'm a Tunt." The young man was concentrating so hard on her physique, he wasn't sure he heard her correctly.

"Pardon me, ma'am. A what?" he asked.

"A Tunt," she said again. "As in the railway Tunts," she clarified.

"I see," he responded, with a clear of his throat. "Well ma'am, the thing is this. There is no fine for a speeding violation such as this." Cheryl perked up. She thought this was good news. The officer continued, "In these situations, I am obligated to confiscate your license and impound your vehicle." Cheryl slumped back down again. Not only would this certainly prevent her from reaching New York first but it would mean she would owe her stupid brother some ridiculous favor until she could get the car back. She had no other option but to be blatant with her attempt to get out of the violation altogether.

"Oh gosh!" she exclaimed, with all the innocence she could muster. Then, in quite an opposite move, she became as overtly sexual as she could while still remaining fully clothed. She rested her breasts on top of the door as she asked, "Isn't there anything I can do to avoid all of this unpleasantness? Anything at all?" Then she gave the officer a wink and made a motion at her mouth with an open fist that coincided with her tongue darting in and out of her cheek, suggesting that she could perform fellatio on the officer. Little beads of sweat formed on his forehead. There was only one way to handle this, he thought.

"Please step out of the vehicle ma'am," he ordered. That was it. Cheryl had lost. Now she was going to jail and not make it to New York at all. She spied several shiny things in her purse, amongst them, the tungsten knitting needles she had retrieved from the crate in the desert. She thought briefly about jamming one in the officer's throat or temple and making her escape knowing there would be little chance of a road block to stop her. Then she thought about having to live her life on the run as a suspected cop killer, which, with her millions, she could easily have done but, in the end, decided against it. Defeated and dejected, she stepped out of the car. "Please turn and face the car and place your hands behind your back," he told her. She complied. The officer then place a pair of handcuffs on her and clamped them shut. Cheryl couldn't help but become aroused by the confinement which was always a turn on for her and she let out a little moan. The policeman, who was already at his breaking point, couldn't take any more sexual torture from her. Placing his hand in between her shoulder blades, he pressed her against the car and with his foot kicked her legs a little further apart. Cheryl let out a squeal and a giggle. The policeman got up close behind her and pressed up against her. Through the back of her skirt, she could feel he had an erection. Despite his rough and tumble arrest procedure, Cheryl wasn't sure she liked what kind of justice was being doled out here.

"I want to talk to my lawyer! I feel like I'm getting the shaft!" she shouted.

"No, that's just the tip," the young officer bragged. Now Cheryl knew _exactly_ what kind of justice was being doled out; her kind. He leaned in close and said in a quiet voice in her ear, "Do you know what a Philadelphia Dump Truck is?"

"I'm guessing by the size of the dick I feel back there, it has nothing to do with what picks up the trash around here," she said with a laugh.

"No ma'am, it certainly does not," he answered with a smile. And he led her to the back of his vehicle where he proceeded to perform the act upon her much to both of their delights. A few minutes and a couple of Handi Wipes later, Cheryl was back on her way.

PART NINE: The Jersey Jam

Interstate 95 that Cheryl was on and Interstate 78 that the rest of the ISIS group were on met at Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey. At that junction, Cheryl thought it best to get onto I-78 as it was the more direct route to lower Manhattan where ISIS headquarters was located. As Cheryl was taking the on ramp to I-78, she saw a familiar car. It was the Cadillac that had left her in the desert dust two days earlier. She could see that it was not far behind the Ferrari that Lana and Cyril took. She weaved through traffic to overtake the cars. Then, the unthinkable happened. More flashing lights appeared behind her. She couldn't believe she was about to be pulled over again. Why her, she thought, of all the cars approaching the Casciano Memorial Bridge, why was she being singled out? But it was her sleep deprived, caffeine-fuelled paranoia getting the best of her. The vehicle flashing its lights and blaring its siren wasn't after Cheryl. In fact, it wasn't even a police vehicle. It was the orange and white Transcon Medi-Vac containing Archer and his group and it was trying to use the lights and siren to try and gain position in the race through the increasingly dense traffic on the bridge.

But the traffic on the bridge, with two lanes going in each direction, wasn't just getting more dense, it was also getting slower. In fact, in was coming to a virtual standstill. Ahead of them, the agents of ISIS could see more flashing lights, these ones belonging to police cars. It was the police escort for a wide load crossing the bridge at a stifling 2 miles per hour. The four vehicles jockeyed for position in the jam until they were four consecutive cars, none letting any of the others pass, with Lana driving the Ferrari in front, the Cadillac, still being driven by Burt Reynolds, next, Cheryl and the Lam-bro third and Archer driving the Ambulance and bringing up the rear. Sterling became frustrated with the traffic's pace. You could literally walk faster than this, Archer thought. So he took the time to do just that. He got Pam to take the wheel and he got out to walk to the other cars and explain the rules that would determine a winner of this race. Once this house and the four of them were off the bridge, he explained, it was going to be a balls-to-the-wall, no holds barred sprint on the last leg of the race to determine a winner, with said winner being whoever was first to arrive in the reception area of ISIS headquarters. Archer also added that last place finisher had to make drinks and wait on the others for the rest of the day. The others didn't care about the terms but agreed to them if it meant that Archer would stop bothering them about it.

Cheryl also took advantage of one of the longer pauses to get out of her car. She hopped back to the ambulance behind her and wrapped on the side door. Krieger slid it open. "Hey, Ray!" she called to the man in the stretcher. She reached into her purse and produced Barbra and Liza, Ray's matching M1911 pistols. "Before I forget, here are you stupid, gay guns back," she said, tossing them onto the gurney. Along with the tungsten needles, Cheryl had also removed these from the crate in the desert. Ray, overjoyed to have their return, held one to each cheek, caressing them. "I don't know what's so good about them," Cheryl complained. "I wouldn't even kill a cop with those things," she said in a disgust that neither Ray nor Krieger could determine was genuine or chiding. She left before they could find out and they were glad of it.

In as much as none of the others, except Archer, wanted to be in this rally in the first place, it had been such an ordeal that none of them wanted to lose if for no other reason than to have at least that much satisfaction more than the others. At this point, the race became more about being able to say, "Well, at least that part of it didn't suck for me as much as it did for you," than it did about winning some fake Cannonball Run.

PART TEN: Back

Once the jam had cleared the bridge and the house got off of the interstate, traffic began to flow faster. As the pack needed to stay on I-78 at least until they were through the Holland Tunnel, positions in the race stayed unchanged. But once they were on Manhattan Island, each driver took the route to ISIS headquarters he or she thought would get them there fastest. Once the ambulance had separated from the pack, Archer did something surprising with it. He slowed down. And then he pulled over. "What are you doing?" Pam asked. "Why are you stopping?" Archer turned off the ignition, looked over at Pam and smiled.

"It was never about me winning, Pam," Archer confessed to her. "In the movie, Burt doesn't win the race," he elaborated. "But everybody has a good time and there's a big party at the end." He paused and reflected on that. "Do you remember the speech I gave in the desert?" he asked. "The one about us being The Bad News Bears?" Pam nodded. "When I gave that speech, I didn't know we'd be going on this Cannonball Run. I was just trying to rally the troops. I was waiting for a Ferrari to show up so I could take Lana and AJ for a cross country tour and make you guys chase after us. I was gonna make you guys figure out what to do with Ray." Archer leaned over to acknowledge his slight on Ray. "No offence, Ray." Ray didn't let it just slide.

"Some taken," he told Archer. Sterling didn't let Ray's hurt feelings get in the way of the story he was trying to tell.

"Anyway, where was I?" he began again. "Oh yes, so, it was just dumb shit luck when this ambulance showed up. But it was totally awesome luck that it turned out to be a Transcon Medi-Vac just like the one in the equally frikkin' awesome movie, _Cannonball_ _Run_. And I still had the Ferrari coming, and Katya knew who was supposed to get it, so, it wasn't like I was just _abandoning_ Lana and the baby in the middle of the desert or anything." Pam interrupted the story there with a clarification.

"But that's _exactly_ what she thought you were doing," Pam told him. Archer was confused.

"No, wait, shit, really?" he asked. "She was serious?"

"Of course, you dong!" Ray said. "She was in the desert and you were driving away. What else was she supposed to think?"

"But I gave her the sign," he explained. "I tapped my glasses. That was the clue that the Ferrari was coming." Ray wasn't following.

"How is _that_ a clue that a Ferrari is on its way?" he asked.

"I'll tell you guys in a few minutes," Archer told them. "That's why I made this stop; to pick up some visual aids." With a tilt of his head, Archer indicated the building they were parked in front of. It was a toy and hobby shop. "I just wanna finish my story first. So, I made my little speech to rally the troops. Then my plan was to leave you there so you would unite in your efforts to chase after me. And when you caught me, you'd feel like you accomplished something because, well, I'm hard to catch. And then you would all feel good about yourselves and you would totally forget all that bullshit the CIA put you through. So, you see? That's why I can't win the race. I just want you to _think_ I want to win so that when you beat me, you'll feel good again." Ray was still skeptical.

"But why are you telling _us_ about your plan? Don't you care if _we_ feel good?" he asked. The others turned to Archer for an explanation, which he had ready.

"I'm telling you guys because you're my favorites. What, do you think I would tell this to Cyril?" he told them, hoping the con would work.

"Aaaawww," Pam and Krieger sighed, simultaneously. Ray was not so easily taken in.

"But in your _original_ plan, you would have crossed the country with your daughter and her mother," he reasoned. "Wouldn't _they_ be your favorites and _we'd_ be the ones you were trying to fool?" Pam and Krieger turned their expressions to ones of disappointment and Archer was all out of defences.

"Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to," he said, just wanting to sweep all the hurt feelings under the rug. Archer changed the subject. "Anyway, we're here. I need gear. Deal with it!" he told them. Then, he jumped out of the van and went into the toy store. He came out a few minutes later with a couple of bags, jumped in the van and drove off.

A short time after that, they arrived at ISIS headquarters. Archer parked the ambulance on the street in front of the building. Then he quickly held one finger up in a gesture indicating he wanted everyone to hold their positions for a moment. He jumped out of the van and ran around to the passenger side. He opened Pam's door and offered a hand to help her out of the vehicle. "Thanks, Archer," Pam cooed.

"Just getting ready for my day of servitude for finishing last in the Cannonball," he explained. Then he called into the back of the Medi-Vac, "Hold tight, Krieger. I'll give you a hand with that gurney." Krieger gave Sterling a smile, then he gave Ray a smile. Ray wasn't smiling back. Archer bounded to the back door and opened it up. He grabbed the back end of the stretcher and started rolling it out. Just before it was completely out, Krieger grabbed his end. "You have to be careful with the wheels on these," Sterling warned him. "If you don't grab the table solidly, the scissor mechanism can pinch you when the wheels drop down." Krieger held firmly as Archer brought the gurney out the rest of the way. The wheels lowered quickly, locking in place with a snap. But the snap didn't come from the stretcher, it came from Krieger's right baby finger which got caught by the scissor mechanism and broke. Krieger pulled his hand back with a yelp. "Oh, did I mention that you have to from the end, not the sides?" Archer asked. He could tell from the doctor's expression that he had not. "My bad," he added. Krieger held the broken finger in place with his good hand and Pam took his position at the other end of the gurney. "You all right, Krieger?" Archer asked.

"Oh, I'm fine," Krieger told him, through gritted teeth. "It only hurts when I point." Krieger followed up by pointing – a middle finger at Archer. Sterling wanted to react to that but he needed a point of clarification first.

"Okay, are you really pissed at me or are you quoting the brilliant work of Cannonball's writer, Brock Yates?" he asked. "Because that was, like, right out of the movie and I would be super impressed with your level of commitment. Otherwise, I might be less inclined to be very helpful to you." Krieger considered the ramifications of his answer and chose the one he thought would result in the least trouble for him.

"Yates?" he said, more as a question than as a response.

"Lucky," Archer told him, "because you are in for a day of pampering, my good man." With that, they rolled Ray into _Popeye's_ _Suds_ _and_ _Duds_ , the dry cleaning business that doubles as the front entrance to the ISIS headquarters.

"Hey, Popeye," Archer called to the man behind the counter, "has Cyril dropped off my suit yet?" Popeye slowly lifted his head out of the magazine he'd been reading and just as slowly answered him.

"I ain't seen Figgis all day," Popeye told him. Archer thought that was odd. Cyril and Lana would have been here by now no matter which route they took. Popeye must have missed them come in.

"Maybe you were in the back when they got here," Archer suggested.

"I ain't been out from behind this counter all day either," Popeye corrected him. Archer couldn't understand. Not paying attention when Cyril passed through was easy enough but Popeye never missed an opportunity to greet "Miss Kane" as he liked to call her. But this entrance wasn't the only way into ISIS. They could have scaled the outside, which would be reasonable for Lana but it wasn't exactly Cyril's style. Plus, it was a little risky with the baby. No, the more reasonable explanation was that they came in via the underground parking. Lana had the Ferrari. Of course, she wouldn't want to leave it on the street, Archer reasoned. For that matter, they were all driving luxury sports cars so it was only logical that they all came in through the parking garage. Archer put his mind at ease and hit the button that opened the passage to the elevator. They rolled Ray inside and hit the button to go up.

"When we get up to the office," he told the others, "you guys go ahead of me so that I'm the last one to arrive, okay?" Pam and Krieger shrugged their compliance. The elevator bell dinged to indicate they had reached their floor. As the door opened, Archer expected a cacophony of catcalls and jeers, taunts and teases regarding his last place finish. But there were none. In fact, it was silent. "Hello!" Archer called. "We were all supposed to meet in the reception area and _this_ is the reception area!" Archer got a tingling sensation. He feared the others had been ambushed because they couldn't all have arrived after him. He drew his weapon and gave a silent gesture to Pam and Krieger to check down the hallway toward the lab. They gently rolled Ray in that direction. After they left, Archer proceeded on through the lobby, checking behind desks as he advanced. Then a noise came from his office. Archer readied his pistol.

"Alright, whoever you are, come out with your hands up!" he warned. "You got five seconds or I'm sending my bullets in after you!" The shadowy figure of a man appeared in the doorway, hands over his head. It was hard to see him when he was harshly backlit by the sunshine filled office but once he stepped into the artificial light of the reception area, Archer could make out who it was.

"Woodhouse?" he asked.

The old man's frail voice answered, "Yes, sir." Archer momentarily let go of his concern for the others to grill his valet on why he hadn't him in so long.

"Where the hell have you been?" Sterling demanded.

"I went on a vacation, sir," Woodhouse told him. "I left you a note." Archer could vaguely remember finding a note in the old man's writing one groggy, hungover morning around the time Woodhouse disappeared. He also remembered crumpling it up and throwing it away. He recalled it being a bad idea because, not only had he not read the note, but the crumpling noise was particularly loud in his sensitive head.

"Oh come on, Woodhouse," he told the man, "unless the note says, "Your eggs are ready," I'm pretty much going to ignore it."

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged.

"As a matter of fact," Archer confessed, "I could go for some Eggs Woodhouse right now."

"Right away, sir." Woodhouse turned to go make the eggs but Sterling stopped him.

"Wait!" he called. "Haven't the others arrived?"

"No, sir," the valet told him. "You're the first."

"So I won the race?" he asked, not able to believe that, even with the delay, he had beaten the others by such a large margin.

"No sir," Woodhouse corrected him, "you came in second." Woodhouse had no idea which order Sterling and his group had exited the elevator in, nor did he know it mattered.

"Second?" Archer was confused. "You just said I was first." If Archer couldn't be last, he sure as hell wanted to be first.

"You were the first of the _others_ ," Woodhouse explained. " _I_ was the first one to finish the race."

" _You_ were!?" Archer asked, loudly. " _You_ weren't even _in_ the race!"

"Oh but I was, sir," Woodhouse explained. "I was the one who picked up Miss Katya in my Aston Martin after the Ferrari drop off. I let her drive. Being a cyborg, she needed no food, no rest and no restroom. The only time we stopped was for fuel during which I used the facilities and obtained food and drink which I consumed in the car. My role in the victory was to plan calculated diversions and delays to foil the rest of you, who I kept track of via ISIS satellite feeds to my computer. I arranged the encounter with the motorcycle gang. I asked Miss Tiffy to give Miss Tunt misleading directions. I paid off duty policemen to detain her and you, sir. I even arranged for a house to be brought over a certain New Jersey bridge that you may recall. And as we speak, your friends and coworkers are meeting with all manner of Manhattan traffic mishaps." When he finished his story, Woodhouse hung his head in mock shame but keeping eye contact with his master. A wry smile slowly appeared on the old man's face.

With that much planning going that spectacularly well, Archer had no choice but to concede defeat to his elder. He gave the old man a slow ovation before offering, "Congratulations!" and his hand to shake. As he played the scheme over again in his head, a realization made Archer smile and then chuckle. "Oh. My. God!" he exclaimed. "You're the old British guy who acts like a spy by driving around in a classic British roadster with a beautiful babe and delaying the other racers with all these crazy contraptions! You're Roger Moore in the movie! It's perfect!"

"Exactly, sir," Woodhouse agreed.

After the brilliance of it all had finally sunk in, Archer had to admit to himself that he really did appreciate his valet. And he had missed him. So he told him, "It's good to have you back, Woodhouse."

"It's good to be back, sir," Woodhouse told him.

"Now go make those eggs," he said with a chuckle. But Woodhouse did not move immediately so Sterling gave him a stern look.

"Right away, sir," Woodhouse finally said, with a smile. He turned and left. Just then, the elevator dinged. The door opened and all of the ISIS gang, Ron Cadillac and Burt Reynolds poured out.

Seeing that Archer was already there, Lana relinquished, "Okay, so you won." Archer could almost hear the "Big deal" on the tip of her tongue that she was biting. The others were looking amongst themselves, trying to determine who came out of the elevator last so they would know who to offer up as Archer's kicking boy.

Before they had a chance to make that determination, he confessed, "No, I didn't win either. We are all winners," he offered, "who work together to achieve something greater than themselves." Just then, Woodhouse rolled a cart filled with drinks out to serve to the group. To his appreciation, the valet's arrival was met with a flattering amount of fanfare. Archer once again marvelled at the old man's ability to stay one step ahead of the action. The only thing he had forgotten were Archer's - .

"Your eggs, sir," he said, handing Archer his long awaited plate of Eggs Woodhouse. Sterling picked up a glass and raised it up for a toast.

"To The Cannonball Run!" he called. Begrudgingly, the others had to admit to themselves that the race, at the very least, had its moments.

"To The Cannonball Run!" they chimed in.

This was it, Archer thought. This was the big party, like at the end of the movie. In light of all he had learned recently, he had to wonder if Woodhouse somehow masterminded the whole thing, the whole Cannonball Run, and orchestrated his victory in it as one last kick at the can to finish his vacation off in grand style. It's what he would have done, if he was as brilliant as his servant, his friend, his mentor, Woodhouse.

PART ELEVEN: The Plan

After everyone had had a chance to have a drink, get some food, wash up and wind down, Archer gathered them around a table where he had assembled his toy shop purchases. "As you are all well aware," he started, "I have been hinting at an idea I've had for what we can do now that working for the CIA is out of the question."

"Yes, Sterling, what is this grand scheme of yours?" Malory asked, skeptical that it was going to amount to anything more than some half-baked way to live the exotic high life.

"And how does that Ferrari fit into all of it?" Lana needed to know, if for no other reason than to know how much more time, if any, she was going to have to plan to spend in the thing.

" _That_ Ferrari," Archer began, mocking Lana's sarcasm toward the car, "is a 1977 Ferrari 308 GTS, red in color. It is the same one that is used –"

"In the Cannonball Run," they all said together.

"Coincidentally, yes," Archer sniped, "but that's not what I was going to say. I was _going_ to say that it's the same one used by Tom Selleck in the 80s hit TV series, Magnum P.I.! Same with the glasses. The glasses were the clue to the Ferrari and the two together bring you, inescapably, to Magnum Freakin' P.I.!" Archer could barely contain his excitement but, for the crowd around him, there was nothing. Archer couldn't believe he was going to have to completely spell it out for them. "What I'm suggesting is that we get into the dick business." (Archer waited for it.)

"Why don't you _eat_ a dick, Archer," Ray said. (There it was.) Krieger, with his broken finger in a splint, had fixed Ray's cyborg parts (again, it didn't take long) and he was good as new but in no better a mood than he had been in all week.

"Why don't you eat a _bag_ of dicks, Ray?" Archer shot back.

"You wouldn't happen to _have_ a bag of dicks, would you?" Ray purred, teasingly.

"Oh yeah, I forgot," Archer said, thinking that because Ray was a gay man, he would probably _like_ a bag of dicks. "But, no!" he responded, as if the question had been legitimate. Then, returning to the issue at hand, continued, "What I'm trying to say is that we should start a detective agency."

"And do what?" Cyril asked. "Go sneaking around, covertly collecting information for clients?"

"That sounds a lot like spying," Lana added. "Which is what we used to do! Which we sucked at! Badly! Very, very badly!"

"Okay," Cyril started as he stood, "it's gonna _look_ like I'm going but…" He began heading for the door.

"Wait!" Archer called to him. "We could name it after you!" Cyril stopped walking. "We could call it, The Figgis Agency," Archer said, making a broad arc in the air with his hand, for flair. Cyril stood near the door, staring at Archer, stone faced. Then he briskly moved back to his chair and sat down.

"I'm listening," he said, leaning in.

Archer picked up the model Ferrari and model helicopter from the table and said, "Okay, this is how it wall all play out." He chuckled to himself at his clever word usage given his choice of visual aids. He then proceeded to act out how the business would work, outlining everyone's role, in miniature on the table in front of them.

When he was done, it was Lana's turn to be stone faced. She was at a loss for words to describe how stupid she thought his plan was and she told him so. "I have literally no response to that."

THE END


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